


just let the feeling grow

by ajkal2



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, But also, Elias Is A Douchebag, Lavish Mansions, Love songs, M/M, Oh No There's A Wedding And Someone Has To Sing, Rich snobs, Romantic Fluff, kinda it's a little more complicated than that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27838447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajkal2/pseuds/ajkal2
Summary: take your time, make it slowandante andante, just let the feeling grow- Andante, Andante, ABBAJon is a musician. He plays songs for a living. Except love songs. He doesn't do love songs, and he makes this quite clear with anyone interested in working with him.Except his manager has booked him for a wedding. Without asking.With days before the festivities start, Jon needs help. Desperately. He won't get it from his hosts, the Lukas family. He certainly won't get it from his manager.However, there's a certain amateur poet on the Lukas' staff who has a talent for making love sound genuine.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Naomi Herne/Evan Lukas, background Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas - Relationship
Comments: 18
Kudos: 86
Collections: TMA Big Bang 2020





	1. i don't know, i don't know

**Author's Note:**

> this is my fic for the 2020 TMA big bang! yes it is titled after an ABBA song. no i have no regrets. 
> 
> i want to thank all my artists, i've had a great time working with them, and their art is _stunning_ , guys, it's SO GOOD. each piece will be embedded in the fic as the scene it's for pops up, but i'm also going to put some links here, right at the top!
> 
> [ By Guess | @talking4the1!](https://talking4the1.tumblr.com/post/636397321069969408/title-just-let-the-feeling-grow-read)  
> [ By Clau | @waspsnest! ](https://waspsnest.tumblr.com/post/636397563663253504/this-is-my-piece-for-the-tmabigbang-for-the-fic)  
> [ By Leap | @an-ace-bi-the-stars! ](https://an-ace-bi-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/636408371530153984/just-let-the-feeling-grow-chapter-1-ajkal2)  
> [ By Pat | @spookyoats! ](https://spookyoats.tumblr.com/post/636408685882671104/my-piece-for-ajkal2-s-fic-just-let-the-feeling)  
> [ By Van | @vanroesburg! ](https://vanroesburg.tumblr.com/post/636423396313399296/id-a-digital-image-of-two-people-martin-and)
> 
> i also would like to thank the mods of the bang, you guys have done a great job at forcing everyone to stay on track <3 
> 
> anyway, without further ado, let's get started!!

_You're asking me will my love grow_  
_I don't know, I don't know_  
_You stick around, now it may show_  
_I don't know, I don't know_

_\- Something, The Beatles_

The car moves steadily, wheels crunching their way along the endless gravel drive. Jon wipes a space in the window trying to see if they’re _going_ anywhere, but it’s too dark to make out anything outside the cone of the headlights. Jon’s guitar case is propped securely against his good leg, his fingers tapping on top of it. He’s _pretty_ sure Elias isn’t taking him to the middle of nowhere to murder him. Well, fairly sure.

“Where are we going, again?” he asks his manager.

Elias doesn’t look up from his phone. “We’re meeting an old friend of mine.”

“Right,” Jon says. “Of course.” Elias hadn’t mentioned that this _old friend_ lived in the middle of nowhere _._ Or that the trip was at least an hour and a half’s drive from London.

The hedges part, car turning onto a proper drive. Jon leans forward, looking around and- There. A manor. A palace almost, huge, all the windows blazing light. Jon squints, trying to make out what’s inside, and- They lead into a _ballroom,_ of all things, an elaborate chandelier hanging above rows of empty trestle tables.

The car stops, and Elias looks up. He smiles. “Perfect,” he says, slipping his phone into his pocket. “They’re having dinner.” He opens the door of the car, stepping out.

Jon scrambles to follow, wincing as his guitar case bangs into the door of the car. Should be fine. It’s an old one anyway. Elias looks up at the giant double doors, smile still playing about his lips.

“Should we knock, or-“ Jon asks, but Elias is already striding forwards, designer coat flapping open. He closes a leather-gloved hand around the gleaming brass doorknob, and twists.

The door swings open. The lobby inside is like something out of a fancy hotel, crystal chandelier suspended over a gleaming marble floor. There’s a man in an old fashioned uniform, black jacket and white gloves and a black tie tucked into a light blue vest. He pushes off the wall, face morphing for a second into surprise before settling on an easy, charming grin. “Gentlemen!” he says, “Welcome to Moorland-“

“Let the Lukas’ know I’m here,” Elias orders, not even looking at the butler.

“Yessir,” the butler says, though his eyebrows shoot upward. “And your name would be…”

Elias does look at him now, a slight frown creasing his forehead. His lip curls. “You’re new,” he observes.

“Been here over a year, now,” the butler corrects, hands folding behind his back. “Sir.”

Elias rolls his eyes, a sharp, economic motion. “Tell Peter Lukas that Elias Bouchard is here.” He pronounces his own name sharply, holding the butler’s gaze, and the butler clearly recognises it, eyebrows jumping up.

“Yessir,” the butler says. “Right away, sir,” and he strides out of the room like it’s on fire.

Jon watches him leave. The hallway he disappears down is just as extravagant as the lobby. “Who _are_ these Lukas’?” he hisses to Elias, clutching his case tightly. “I don’t think I-“

Elias glances at him. “The _Lukas_ family,” he says, shrugging off his coat, “are one of the oldest, richest dynasties on the British Isles. There’s been a Lord Lukas in Kent since the English Civil War.” He folds his coat over his arm, reaching up to adjust his hair. “I was introduced to the current heir, Peter Lukas, at Eton.”

Jon swallows. “Right,” he says. “But why are we-“

The butler returns, heels clicking against the marble. “Right this way,” he says, gesturing down the hall.

Elias smiles. He walks down the hallway with complete confidence, pushing his coat at the butler as he passes. The butler almost fumbles the coat, clearly not expecting to be treated as a bell-boy. Jon follows Elias, hands tucked in the pockets of his own coat. The ceilings have that weird moulding thing in the corners. The fancy one. The floors are dark, rich wood, with runners of deep blue carpet down the centre. Elias stops outside a set of double doors. The walls are that same shade of light blue, finish pristine. He tilts his neck one way, then the other, reaches up to smooth his fingers around his sharp collar.

“Is this the-“ Jon asks, but before he can finish the question Elias is striding forward, pushing open both double doors.

It’s the ballroom. Elias’ footsteps echo off the black windows, framed by deep blue curtains, and Jon hurries to keep up. There _are_ people here, eating at the high table. They are silent, frowning. Jon’s shoulders hunch. Elias doesn’t react, striding across the hall as if he owns it, smile wide and toothy.

The chair in the centre of the table is occupied by an old man. Piercing light-blue eyes peek out from under heavy white eyebrows, and his face is set in a deep frown. To his left, a man who must be his son sits, with the same blue eyes, though his are locked on Elias, and his face is carefully blank. His hair is white as well, though he can’t be more than fifty. A couple sits at the end of the table, separated from the father and son by a seat or two. The man has those same blue eyes, though they’re softened by a pair of black glasses. A young, brown-skinned woman sits next to him, holding his hand.

None of them speak. Elias comes to a halt, in front of the high table. All eyes are on him. “Good evening,” he says. Jon sidles to a halt a pace or two behind him. He doesn’t know what to do with his case.

“Bouchard,” the old man says, frown deepening. “You weren’t invited.”

“Nathanial,” Elias says charmingly, with a respectful nod of his head. “Always a pleasure.” He turns on his heel, nodding to the couple. “Evan, and this must be Naomi. Lovely to meet you, dear.”

The young man, Evan, is frowning. He pulls his partner close, whispering something into her ear. She frowns.

Elias waits, still smiling.

Naomi, apparently, wets her lips. “Lovely to meet you too,” she says, as if she’s dangling meat over a tiger cage.

“A little bird told me,” Elias says, conspiratorially, “That you two are getting _married._ ”

“Yes,” Evan says, tense. His eyes are locked on Elias. “We are.”

“My congratulations,” Elias purrs. “There’s really nothing like a marriage to confirm your commitment to someone, after-“

The fourth person at the table, the son, snorts.

Elias turns his head, slowly. “Something to add, Peter?” he asks.

Peter bares his teeth in a smile. “I agree entirely,” Peter replies. He lifts his glass of wine, taking a slow sip. “There is nothing like the,” he pauses, considers his wording. “Security. That you fine, once you marrying the _right_ _partner_.”

Elias’ smile drops. “Quite,” he says, icy.

Nathaniel rolls his eyes. “What do _you_ want?” he asks Elias gruffly.

Elias’s smile flicks back on. “Oh, nothing more than your hospitality,” he says graciously, “I couldn’t miss a wedding like this.”

Nathaniel’s eyes shift abruptly to Jon. He startles, reminded that he is actually in the room and not just watching it all unfold. “And your pet?” Nathaniel asks.

“This is Jon,” Elias says, gesturing without bothering to look. “He’s a musician. My latest talent.”

“I’d forgotten you’d decided to play with _musicians_ ,” Peter mutters into his glass.

Elias ignores him. “I thought he could play at the wedding.”

Jon chokes on his own spit. Elias hadn’t- he can’t play at a _wedding,_ he doesn’t-

Nathaniel’s eyes bore into him. Jon thumps his own chest, wheezing. “Sorry,” he rasps.

Nathaniel’s lips twist. “Hm,” he says disapprovingly. He raises a hand, snapping his fingers, and a woman dressed in the same butler’s uniform steps into the room. “Sasha, find these men rooms,” he orders. “It’s late.”

Sasha nods, bowing sharply. “Yessir.” She looks at Jon and Elias, light brown eyes sparkling. “Follow me, sirs, I’ll lead you to your rooms.”

Jon takes a step towards her, clearing his throat, but Elias’ hand catches around his wrist.

“It’s barely evening,” Elias says, eyes locked on Nathaniel. “Can’t we join you for drinks, at least?”

“You’ve tested my patience enough, Bouchard,” Nathaniel growls.

Elias turns his head to Peter. Peter pours himself more wine, resolutely ignoring the situation.

“Away with you,” Nathaniel says, flapping his hand at Sasha.

She steps forward, efficiently herding them out of the room. Jon moves to follow her, but Elias isn’t moving. Or letting go. His eyes are still locked on Peter.

Sasha clears her throat. “This way, sirs,” she says clearly.

“Of course,” Elias says through gritted teeth. He turns, and stalks out of the room, practically dragging Jon with him.

Jon waits until they’re out of the double doors. “A _wedding?_ ” he snaps, yanking back at Elias’s grip on him. “You want me to-“

Elias lets go of Jon’s wrist as if burned, snapping him a glare. “Yes, I do,” he says, like ice. “And you _will_ play, and you will play _well,_ because people will be attending that wedding, important people, and this single event could make or break your career.”

Jon glares right back at him. “And you didn’t think to- to _warn_ me?”

Elias tugs at his cuffs, an unpleasant expression on his face. “You would’ve been too nervous, and backed out. I know you, Jon, I know what’s best for you, and this is-”

Sasha clears her throat. She’s standing in the centre of the corridor, hands folded behind her back. “If you’d follow me, sirs,” she tells them. She turns neatly, skirt barely rising, and walks down the corridor at a brisk pace.

Elias follows, matching her speed easily, and Jon tries to keep up. “I don’t do love songs,” Jon hisses, “I don’t even know-“

Elias doesn’t even look at him. “Do some of the classic ones.”

“Do you have any idea how many bloody songs about falling in love there are?” Jon huffs, “Lots! Loads! Only problem is, I can’t sing _any_ of them, because _I don’t do love songs.”_

“Oh, just- do _something,_ ” Elias snaps. “I don’t have _time_ for you to have a crisis, Jon.”

“Something is a love song, yes, but again, I don’t-”

“What?” Elias looks at him, lip curling.

“Something. In the way she moves. The Beatles?”

Elias rolls his eyes. “Whatever works, Jon.”

“Nothing will work,” Jon insists, “Because-”

Elias glares at him again, and he’s gone _icy_. Jon’s mouth closes with a click. “You will,” Elias says, deathly quiet.

Ahead of them, Sasha turns, leading them up a staircase. “The guest rooms are just up here,” she says brightly.

Elias’ nose wrinkles. “Guest rooms,” he mutters in a dark tone.

Jon doesn’t say anything. They silently follow Sasha up two floors, and along a corridor identical to the one downstairs, until she stops by a door. “Here’s-“ she begins, but Elias doesn’t bother stopping, walking straight into the room and slamming the door behind him.

Sasha says nothing, but her eyebrows rise at the closed door.

Jon sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he tells Sasha abruptly. “He’s-“ he pauses, crumples his face. “A wanker,” he finishes.

Sasha’s face breaks out of her public-service smile, into a proper grin. “You said it, not me” she says, eyes twinkling. “I’m guessing you’ll need a different room, then?”

Jon grimaces. “I mean, I guess? Maybe if I just- leave, no one will notice.”

Sasha hums thoughtfully. “I could get Tim to call a cab if you want to escape.”

“No, I don’t need- I’m fine,” Jon says, twisting his hands together. “I was just- He’s not a wanker really, he’s my manager, he’s doing everything to help me, he just- forgets to explain, sometimes. It’s fine.”

Sasha’s eyebrows are raised again. “Of course, sir,” she says. “Do you want me to show you to another room?”

Jon crumples. “Yes, OK. And- it’s Jon. Please don’t call me sir.”

Sasha smiles, and it reaches her eyes this time. “Of course, Jon,” she says. “This way.”

Jon lets her lead him along the corridor.

“Thank you,” he says to Sasha, after she shows him to another door.

“You’re welcome,” she says. Then she gives him that same half-bow, and leaves.

Jon opens the door, puts down his guitar, finally, and flops onto the bed.

A wedding. A _wedding._ If there were _any_ event, _any_ stipulation he could put in his contract- He doesn’t do love songs. He _can’t_ do love songs.

And it’s a _wedding._

He’s so, so fucked.


	2. please don't break it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the art for this chap was supplied by the exquisite @talking4the1! go and give it some love [ here ](https://talking4the1.tumblr.com/post/636397321069969408/title-just-let-the-feeling-grow-read)

_Two with love can make it,_

_Take my heart and please don't break it,_

_Love was made for me and you_

_\- L-O-V-E, Nat King Cole_

“L,” Jon sings, wincing at himself, “is for the way you look. At me.” He presses the piano keys, the right chords, but it all sounds _wrong._

“O,” he forges on, “is for the only one. I see.” His fingers slip, and he curses under his breath.

“V,” he tries, “is very, very.” Chord. “Extraordinary, E, for anyone is even more than,” but he hasn’t got the breath, gasping for air in the middle of the line.

He makes an inarticulate sound of frustration, letting his head fall forward. It hits the keys, of course, and the resulting discordant mess of sound startles him back upright.

It’s like always, when he tries love songs. He sings them, but the words die in his throat. He sounds awkward. _Painfully_ awkward, and wooden, and _terrible_. He can do better than this. But, no, he apparently _can’t,_ as the fact he’s been trying for _hours_ and can’t even make it through the _chorus_ suggests _._

It’s _infuriating._

Jon needs a break. And a cigarette. But he’s not meant to smoke anymore, Georgie keeps going on about his lungs. 

Maybe just a walk on the grounds. Might as well familiarize himself with his prison, after all.

He finds his way out onto the gardens, eventually. He has to ask a passing member of staff for help. The Lukas estate is easily big enough to get lost in, hectares of garden and woodland surrounding the house. He wanders aimlessly along one of the paths, lined with pale white roses. An image pops into his head, Nathaniel Lukas in the Red Queen’s dress, yelling for some poor sod to paint the roses light blue. His mouth quirks up.

The path opens out into a proper rose garden, pale pink and white and yellow flowers tumbling out of neat beds. The beds themselves are half-circles, surrounding an ancient-looking well in the centre of the garden. There are wrought-iron benches, tucked in amongst the roses. It’s all very pretty. Romantic.

The wind rises, rustling the bushes, and Jon catches a scrap of someone’s voice. “ _Love thee,”_ it had said, or something similar.

Jon hadn’t realised there was anyone else out here. The sky’s still moody, different shades of grey threatening rain, but the grass is dry. Jon prowls between the beds, keeping his ears pricked.

“ _depth, and breadth, and height my soul can reach,”_ a male voice is saying, the words soft and- loving. Jon turns towards the voice, at the edge of the garden, following the sound.

 _“For the ends of being and ideal grace,”_ the man continues. Jon steps closer, cutting through a bed of light purple blooms, and catches sight of him.

He’s perched on one of the benches, surrounded by red roses. Staff, his black-and-white uniform sharp against the deep greens and reds. He’s alone. His head is down towards his lap, a notebook and a phone balanced precariously across his knees, and there’s a little focused frown on his face. “ _I love thee freely,”_ he says, tender, as if it’s his bloody wedding vows, “ _as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.”_

Jon’s feet are frozen in place. The words stir a dull recognition in him. Sonnet 43, he realises. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. He’d always thought it trite, corny even, but the way this man is reciting, it…

“ _I love thee with a love I seemed to lose, with my lost saints,”_ the man says, a hint of sorrow entering his voice, and Jon’s heart twinges in his chest. The man leans slightly forward, pushing on, “ _I love thee with the breath,”_ the man says, stronger, _“smiles, tears- of_ all _my life, and… if God choose…”_ The man pauses, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, _“I shall but love thee better after death,”_ he concludes, soft as the rose petals surrounding him.

“How do you _do that?”_ Jon exclaims, and the man jumps horribly with a yelp, his notebook tipping onto the dewy grass. He looks up at Jon, eyes wide.

“Sorry!” he says, flitting to his feet, glancing down to fiddle with his phone, “I didn’t realise anyone was- Usually- Sorry.” He looks up again, anxious.

“Never mind that,” Jon says, impatient, “How did you-“ He struggles for a word, “ _do that?”_ he settles on, gesturing at the bench.

The man glances behind himself. He twitches towards the notebook, bending down to scoop it up. “Um, I didn’t write the-“

“I know it’s not original,” Jon says, rolling his eyes, “Sonnet 43, it’s on the curriculum for crying out loud.”

The man clutches his notebook in both hands, shrinking in on himself a little. “Um! I don’t really. What are you asking?”

Jon huffs out an irritated breath, marching closer. “I’ve been trying _all morning,_ ” he tells the man, “to get out a song with half the- the _emotion_ you put into that poem.”

“Th-Thanks?” the man says, blinking.

Jon wants to _throttle_ him. “How did you do it?” he says, throwing his arms up. “What’s the- the trick, the secret- How do _I_ do it?”

“I don’t- I was just reading!” the man says, hunching his shoulders. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t help you.”

“You- Don’t call me sir,” Jon says, thrown. All of a sudden, he realises how he looks. He lets his hands drop. The man, this random stranger he’s _accosted_ , his body language is all closed off. He’s practically _shying away,_ like Jon’s going to hurt him, like Jon could be _intimidating._ “I’m not- I’m sorry.” Jon tells him, in a rush, “I didn’t mean- I’m sorry.”

The man’s eyes dart up. They’re a muddy green. He’s startled, it seems.

Jon says, “Sorry, you go back to- um. It was very nice. The poetry.”

The man blinks. “…Thank you,” he says.

Jon nods, tucking his hand into his pocket. He clears his throat, awkwardness settling over him like a familiar blanket, and nods. Then he turns and walks away as fast as he can, gravel crunching under his feet. 

A couple more hours of banging his head against the piano keys later, there’s a knock at the door.

Jon jerks up at the sound. It’s the woman, the one who lead them to their rooms last night. Sasha, that was her name. 

“Mr. Bouchard would like to see you,” she says, one eyebrow slightly raised. She’s looking at his head.

“Elias wanted to see me?” he confirms.

Sasha nods. She’s looking slightly above his eyes, at his forehead, and biting her cheek.

“Couldn’t he just…” Jon gestures. “Come up here and see me?”

Sasha shrugs. “He wanted me to take the message to you, then bring you back down to him.” She’s still looking above his eyeline. Is his hair sticking up or something?

Jon pushes up from the piano stool, groaning as his joints pop. “Well, let’s go then,” he says, but Sasha doesn’t move from the doorway.

Her lips are twitching. “You’ve got, um,” she says, oddly high pitched, and her hand darts up to her forehead. 

Jon frowns. Something rustles. He reaches up and- There’s a sheet of music stuck to his forehead.

He sighs. Sasha’s openly grinning. Jon peels the music away from his forehead, putting it back on top of the piano. “Yes, thank you, shall we _go.”_

“Yessir,” Sasha says, somehow making it teasing, and turns on her heel.

Jon follows her down the corridor and down the stairs and then down _another_ corridor and through a big room that’s practically a _parlour_ and into a little antechamber.

Elias is typing, his slim Macbook resting on top of an ornate, gleaming desk. His eyes flick up as they enter, but soon return to his work. “Thank you,” he says to Sasha, more of a dismissal than anything else. She bows, receiving the message, and leaves.

Elias keeps typing. The sound of his fingers hitting the keys is very loud. Jon shoves his hands into his pockets, looks around the room. The walls are covered in bookshelves, dusty old volumes that look like they haven’t been touched for at least fifty years. Jon wants to wander over, try to read some of the titles, but Elias’ eyes snap to him before he can move.

“Jon,” Elias greets him, smile gleaming. “How’s the music coming along?”

Jon scowls. “Well, actually-“

“Glad to hear it.” Elias says. His smile drops, a pensive frown settling over his features. “There’s been a bit of a mix-up, I’m afraid.”

“A mix-up?” Jon echoes. Does this- is the event cancelled? Hope rises in his chest.

“Yes, you know, with the accounts.” Elias rolls his eyes. “I’ll get your pay in when it’s sorted, of course, but it might be a few days.”

“Right, OK.” Elias does this, sometimes. It’s fine. Jon’s rubbish with money, he’s sure Elias will sort it out. 

Elias smiles. He glances back at his laptop, eyes flicking back and forth. His lips quirk upward. “Oh, and Jon,” he says, very casually, without looking up. “Perhaps you could join us for dinner tonight. I understand there’s to be drinks, afterward.”

Jon doesn’t drink. “…Of course,” he says.

Elias smiles widely. “Wonderful. I’ll see you later, then.”


End file.
